It has been close to two years since I last posted here due to various mitigating circumstances. Y’know, life and the like. Recently though, the pull of having a place all of my very own from which to spout nonsense from has proved too strong and I find myself back here again, spouting nonsense.

Shall we start with a list? Imagine you’re turning nine. You wake up on the morning of your birthday and instead of the professional rollerblades you have been angling for since Christmas, your mother has decided that it’s time you put a bit of distance between yourself and those Pitbull and Lady Gaga singles and opted – not for those black rollerblades with the red flame motifs on the side – but rather for a crappy homemade CD with a crudely-scrawled ‘Happy 9th Birthday!!!’ standing in for cover art, in the hope that it might steer you in ‘the right’ musical direction. What could possibly be on that CD that wouldn’t make you want to emancipate yourself from said mother immediately?

Dear Oxegen-info starved readers, please forgive the lateness of my post. That’s what three days of trudging about in the mud, bearing torrential downpours in the name of music research, some, em, light boozing, sleeping in the car and staying up ‘til 5am to debate the finer points of MCD’s organisational skills and communication issues at some sleazy guy’s ‘tent party’ will get you. None of your fancy B&B’s or hotel stays for the Totally Dublin team, we’re dedicated to bringing you the FULL festival experience here (well, apart from a certain indie whizz kid who wimped out with a day pass ;)).

So, day three. The amateurs had crashed and burned and the rain from the day before had driven away the rookies. With Saturday drawing the largest amount of day-trippers, being the only day to have sold out of one day tickets, the crowd had dissipated considerably come dawn and the sun was trying it’s best to come through for us. I was awoken by a light tapping on my cardigan-covered window (which, as I found out, only serves to intrigue people further about what’s behind the window of your car. Countless times I looked up to find a single eye peering through the gaps in my makeshift screen as I tried in vain to have my knacker shower in privacy. Advice – don’t sleep in the car if you value your dignity. If, like me, keeping warm and dry is higher on your list of priorities than maintaining self-respect, ditch the tent and recline your seat). Anyway, the tapping. Some lovely fellow requesting nail varnish. Why, prey tell? To glue the wristband that his friend in the arena had snapped off and sent back out to him. You have to admire the ingenuity of the Irish. I scabbed a smoke in return for a drop of my favourite black lacquer; “not a Johnny Blue or an’thin’ fancy like tha’ though.” And so began another day.

I had decided that Sunday would be a ‘floating day’; a day to drift aimlessly from stage to stage with no pressure or mad dash to catch any particular band. There was one exception: The Specials. Fresh from their lauded Glasto performance, the reformed ska legends’ performance was the main draw of the festival for many of the over 20s and Sunday’s day-trippers. If ever there were a band that deserved sun it was The Specials. After helping to lift millions of spirits throughout the 80’s recession with their iconic two-tone tunes, it looked like they were sent back to help us out of an economic slump once again. Alas though, it was not to be and, as if on cue, the opening bars of ‘Do the Dog’ called forth the rain once again. In probably the heaviest downpour all weekend, it took all of two minutes for revellers to be so thoroughly soaked that there was no point in running for shelter. And with the band belting out hit after hit with all the gusto of teenagers, why the hell would you want to leave? Even the usually po-faced security guards couldn’t help but smile and sing along to the anthemic ‘A Message to You, Rudy’. The rain eased just in time for ‘Ghost Town’ and in the words of Fr. Billy O’Dwyer aka ‘SpinMaster’: “Can everyone please stand for the national anthem.” Well, certainly the anthem of Oxegen ’09 anyway.

The rest of my tent-flitting brought to my ears the audible treats of Friendly Fires, Foals, Jane’s Addiction and The Twang. I even hung out in the Dance Arena long enough to catch the end of Miss Kitten and The Hacker’s set and half of Felix Da Housecat. I knew I’d be a broken woman come Sunday.

As mentioned by, well, almost every other Oxegen reviewer, Friendly Fires were the find of the festival. One of those bands who had been tarred with the collective ‘next big thing’ brush, thanks to their fantastic single ‘Paris’, they had been simultaneously chewed up and spat out by much of the wider media until now. With many ambling in to see them as a precursor to follow-up band Foals, they stole the thunder of the critically acclaimed ‘math-rockers’ (yes, everything MUST be slotted neatly into a genre; otherwise journalists get confused and run out of adjectives). Expect to see the initial interest in the band rejuvenated and download sales surge. Incidentally, Foals rocked too.

I spent a few songs at the O2 Stage for Jane’s Addiction but, not being overly obsessed with the band, Dave Navarro and Perry Farrell’s combined creepy demeanours (complete with botox, bare torsos, kiss-blowing, tongue-waggling and leather- clad ass-shaking) were enough to make me too nauseous to stick it out for favourites such as ‘Been Caught Stealing’, ‘Three Days’ and ‘Jane Says’. What they did do was drive me to the afore-mentioned Dance Arena. Perhaps deterred by Fever Ray’s earlier performance, most of the hard-core ravers and yip-heads had scarpered and everyone was in good spirits for top DJ’s Miss Kitten and The Hacker and Felix Da Housecat.

Topping the night off was a fantastic performance from stalwart lad-rockers The Twang who, despite playing to a tiny crowd due to a time clash with festival headliners The Killers, put in an energetic and admirable performance. Refreshingly devoid of airs and graces, The Twang ironically headlined the Hotpress New Bands Stage, despite being around long enough to have earned the small cult following that worshipped them with more adoration than that of all of the passing Killers fans put together.

And so ends another Oxegen. Countless grumbles of “never again” could be heard as the mass exodus from Punchestown took place today. But I know, you know, and the dogs on the street know that after weary bones have been soaked, stomach grumbles have been satisfied and headaches subsided, the memories of the incredible performances will far outweigh those of mud, rain and the indignity of being herded like cattle and, come next July, thousands will be out welly-shopping once again in preparation for what has truly become a rite of passage for Ireland’s youth.